Inspired: Dear friend; It's candid how I feel like I can make the difference that Charlie had, writing all those letters. He didn't make a difference for anyone but himself. And look at me, I'm up at 1:30am, I haven't slept in two days and my ability to hold emotions in until they become taut and stale, gives me headaches because I grit my teeth subconciously. I wonder how I could describe things in my life as if they actually held meaning. All life is made out to be nothing, but something that you live and have to sustain for everyone and every little growing part of yourself. All major organs, and muscles and bone growth -- everything. It's like when you find love in uncanny faces, and in paintings and the little excerpts of books,and the poetry; in which every word was agonized over to create the image, the fickle, spotless emotion that you could scrub onto your skin and all that would be left is the learned impression of that moment, of someone else. Someone totally different, who was so in love with the moment, and the way the time slid off of the clock, that they implanted it in written immortality. It's beautiful, that people can create such a thing. But then again, maybe it's my running imagination. I used to create names and wait for patterns and dependancies to throw themselves at me, slide down walls like dew. Be these wet thoughts that I could bathe in to eventually absorb--not filter-- everything about anything. Retaining too much information is too much. I have to realize that I'm growing up and I cannot live in a fairytale too much longer. Especially since I am perpetually situated in the thoughts of other peoples, that they have to be pleased in every aspect and at every moment of their waking lives. And apparently, in my own mind, I have to be the genie of this lamp. When there is a character created, that is one you can just fall in love with. Their movements especially. Or thier voices. When you can feel the exact extend of their emotion just through thier voices, because there is the exact feeling inside yourself. It's anxoius, and I want to press my face into myself and cry my organs out into a salty pool, of exagguration. To me, that's love. And I don't know how to explain it any other way. It's comfortable and unrealistic. It's an emotion like no other, that drains itself into you, making life hell, and pointless all the time. And there are too many endings that we just have to get used to. Whether they're real or not. I suppose I find that to be the sad part; knowing your life goes on as some of it stops. Time stops for no one, especially a moment that you want to have continue. We're pushed into leaving the moments that we know, so soft in it's infancy, pushed into a fragment of something harder, so we can grow to it. And that's what I hate. Knowing myself, I'm just coninually being made into something I dont want to be. I'm adjusting myself to these expected parts and I don't even remember what I want anymore. Maybe it's easier to agree and be pushed around. Love Always.